


when the light fades out (all the sinners crawl)

by TakisAngel



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Demons, Angel & Demon Interactions, Angel Wings, Angel/Demon Relationship, Demon Sex, Demons, F/M, Fallen Angels, Had an idea, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, and I'll prob skip over the sexy bits, ballum - Freeform, hey guys its the angel/demon au you never thought you needed, should be finished in like 10 chps, will prob get more violent later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22099174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakisAngel/pseuds/TakisAngel
Summary: "It was a nice room; it was built to be so. The heavenly traces along the crack in the walls was enough to lure lower angels to the doors without thinking. It was a heavenly white, a beautiful white. Callum was growing apathetic to it."---See Callum through his fall from heaven, meeting other demons, just as beautiful, just as strange. The only thing a fallen angel ever wants again is to go back to heaven, they say, but can anyone, especially Ben, the most frustrating demon in the world, really get him there? Is Heaven even worth returning too? Or is this not so much of a Hell as the former soldier angel was led to believe?
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell, Callum ''Halfway'' Highway/Chris Kennedy, Whitney Dean/Callum "Halfway" Highway
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. The Fall

There was blood on the sword.

  
Callum tried to wipe it off, but there it stayed, crimson and creeping, staining onto his hands. The dead demons on his feet didn’t complain as their own blood dripped onto them, splattering on a cheek.

  
There was blood on the ground.

  
It was as bright and red as anything, not thick and black, not brown and oozing. He felt his sword clang as it hit the floor, his wings reaching. Pulling. The baby the demon mother had held as it tried to run away from Heaven’s border was missing a head; its wings had been destroyed. He had done that.

  
There was blood on his hands.

  
It was too much. The angel slid onto the ground, the cold, sterile dirt biting back at him. Bright lights behind him hid the slain demons in shadows, twisted and all. Hands rushed clear into his hair, grimy with blood now, and the angel forced a breath. Another. He repeated over and over the familiar facts.

  
This wasn't murder. These were demons. They were traitors. They weren’t people. His job was to protect God, the holy lights. Demons would crush them into dust, grind all light out of existence. He shouldn’t be feeling this way, as if the world was ready to tumble and dive into a tight ball, shuddering and heaving. Callum started to get dizzy with all manner of facts and truths and lies and began dry heaving by the Gates of Heaven. Some soldier he was.

  
This was different. All the others he had killed were soldiers too. They wore armor.

  
This had to be wrong. This needed to be wrong.

  
“Callum, are you alright? Were you hurt?” a familiar voice called, and Callum could have sobbed in relief. Chris’s hand landed on his shoulder and Callum spun back to his feet, pulling him into a tight embrace--if Chris left, the world would fall apart. A hand gently rubbed his back as he was embraced in turn, and Callum started crying again. “You’re too kind, Callum,” came a soft voice. Whether from God or from Chris, it didn’t matter to him.  
\---  
There was still blood on his sword.

  
Chris seemed to notice when they entered his quarters--Callum couldn't enter by himself--and stuck it in the chest they sent to all the soldier angels. For armors and weapons. Truths and lies. Callum fingered the cloth on the bed, watching the crisp white soak up the red and return to its holy white state yet again, refusing to be colored. Spoiled.

  
The child’s eyes were the color of the dried blood on his hands.

  
“I take it that was your first time?” came a voice from outside the door, and Callum ducked his head as Chris came back, sword at his hip and robes brushing against the floor. The holy light outside the window, showing the path to the heavens, blinded the room in arrays in soft whites, golds, and greys, and Callum suddenly wished that he had curtains.

  
“Yeah,” he croaked back, interlacing his fingers and take a sharp breath, though it was weak. He was weak.

  
He felt Chris sit beside him, putting a hand on top of the ones he wove together. For the longest moment, Callum thought it would just be he and Chris forever. No one else, no outside, no screams, no pleas for mercy. But Chris spoke again, “I know the Lord granted you a big heart, the biggest in heaven probably,” Callum grunted dryly at that, “and I know you must be...I just know. We all know. It’s our duty as soldiers, Callum.”

  
“I didn’t--” Callum started, shoulder bowing and leaning further in as he took a raspy breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. It just happened. I saw the shape in the dark and I raised my sword and it just--it just happened. I killed someone Chris, I did.”

  
“No, you didn’t, Callum. You killed a demon.”

  
“Demons have souls, don’t they?” He gripped his fingers tighter together, his voice was about to break, about to snap.

  
“Cal,” came the soft reply, almost pitiful. There was no response to that, and he felt an arm wrap around his shoulder. “We carry on. We always do. And you got me, you know?”

  
Callum finally looked up, a bit up blood still on his cheek, and met Chris’s eyes. A flood of relief filled every bone given to him by God. He did have Chris, didn’t he? The one who stuck with him through everything. He leaned more into Chris’s touch until the other angel fully embraced him, the softest touch in the world. Callum buried his face into the crook of Chris’s neck; it was moments like this where he knew that he was in heaven. That Chris was heaven.

  
He didn’t know how it happened, but they ended up holding onto each other all night, Callum clutching him and sobbing through periods of the night until he was bone dry of any sorrow left to give, but the dark-haired angel held him right back, maybe just as tightly. Their limbs were intertwined and at some point, when Chris started whispering into his hair, wiping some blood off his hair, it became something else. Something warm and beautiful, just with them holding each other. “I love you,” someone said.  
“I love you,” they both said over and over. Of course, they loved the Lord more. They had to. But if Callum had to choose, if he really had to choose, when Chris was whispering into his skin, maybe he would have chosen him, at that moment. And he knew it was horrible to feel that way. And wrong. And the Lord should always come first. But he was in tatters, and the Lord had left His light off for the night. And Chris was here.

  
This was too soft and holy not to be okay.

  
Chris woke him up when the light came again. Well, not come up much as brightened up by very much as to sear Callum’s eyes open by memory. Chris smiled against him, still huddled into his corners, and Callum moved some hair off of his eyes.

  
He would have chosen him at that moment too.

  
But eventually, the pull of holy duty was too great for them to ignore and they untangled, wiping off christened white garments, already bright and clean despite the screams of the past. The tall angel fingered the threads, his heart, the one given to him by the Savior, clutching up into pieces. Luckily, the hand on his shoulder brought him back into reality. He took another sharp breath and forced one of the smiles that Chris said could cause daylight during a hurricane, and Chris smiled back, real, maybe. The other angel also opened up the trunk when he couldn’t, passing him the handle. Waiting.

  
There was blood on the hilt.

  
He lied, he lied, he lied, he wasn’t okay, he wasn’t OKAY--

  
“Thanks,” Callum said as he took it, pulling it into its holy sheath by his hip. There was no memory of putting it there. The sword fit perfectly into his hands, made just for him. Why couldn’t the blood fade away like on the clothes? Or the bed? Why did it stay?

  
They walked together, out of the quarters. Their hands brushed together, and Chris leaned in to whisper, “I love you.” Without a word, their hands laced together, and the world started to smooth over its edges, crushed by a smaller weight.

  
\---

  
That should have been the end. That should have been the end of it all. Callum had his love, Chris. Callum had the Lord. Callum had his sword. What else could he need?  
But there were more demons and the border. Scorched wings and tails that reached out towards the light, even if their eyes were shut from the brightness. Keeping their distance, maybe, but Callum could feel them on the edges of his vision, creeping on the ground as they moved towards the gates. His grip on the sword tightened, and Callum, oh, sweet-hearted Callum, couldn’t do it anymore.

  
“Chris, I have to--I need--” he started, but his love seemed to understand, squeezing his free hand. But he didn’t let him go.

  
“We have a job to do, Cal. I know its hard, but it will be okay. You were made for this. This is your purpose. I’ll be here.” Tough his eyes kept darting towards the bright light, the holy one farther away from the darkness and the demons, Chris kept pulling him downward, through the walkway, through the barrier, and past the gates, onto the guard posts. The army at the steps barely noticed them; he thought he heard someone grunt in greeting as the next two left their shift. Their hands were still interwoven.  
There was a commotion in the front. Angels cried out, a holy cry, a holy scream, and gave way, and Chris rushed forward--he was so brave, always--to protect the others, to use that love Callum knew so well. And, of course, the taller angel followed.

  
A claw crushed into Chris almost immediately, striking at his shoulder before he was repelled by his sword, bouncing off it, barely having a moment to recover before the sword cleaved him in half.

  
Callum’s hand was empty.

  
There was another motion; the demons were running away. But one of them--no armor, a straggler, like the one he silenced before--was too close to Chris, fleeting by his halo. The soldier grabbed his wing and slammed him onto the floor. There was a brief scream, maybe for mercy, before it all ended. Chris looked upwards with a satisfied expression, closing his eyes.

  
There was blood on Chris’s clothes.

  
The other angel, the one who loved him, turned around to meet Callum’s eyes, his own widening.

  
“Callum!” But it was too late. The soldier angel was gone, dashing up the steps and clamoring at the gates, prying it open enough to slip through, leaving all the other soldiers aghast, startled at this breach of conduct. He was disobeying orders.

  
There was a flurry of white, of angel dust, of clouds, but Callum kept pushing, his mind screaming, his heart-melting. Oh why, oh why couldn’t the Lord make him stronger? Why was he so weak? Why did he want to hurl and scream at the blood everywhere?

  
He killed a child yesterday.

  
He collapsed next to a plaster white wall as other angels bustled around, fulfilling their tasks, following their halos and their light. The air was sterile, not boggy like near the gates. The wall stood against his back forever, until he saw a gold sandal on the floor with his downcasted vision.

  
“Chris--” Callum started, looking upward, face relieved, before meeting an unfamiliar grimace on a superior angel, four wings glaring down at him, the eyes embedded onto them never straying from his halo. He swallowed.

  
“Powers Angel, Third Warrior of the 51st division of the Glorious Sword. Nicknamed Callum. Am I correct?”

  
“Yes, Arch-Powers,” Callum responded on autopilot, getting from his feet and trying to stand from attention. There was a thundering in his brain--his weakness had caught up with him, the Arch-Powers was going to--

  
“Why are you not at your post?” There was no room to talk, no room for weaseling.

  
So Callum swallowed, his tongue forcing the truth--he was too close to the light not to. “I ran away, Arch-Powers.”

  
“Why?”

  
“I was distressed, Arch-Powers.”

  
“Distressed? You were not made to feel distressed, Powers. You were made to fight! For that guard post!” All of Arch-Power’s eyes stared down at him, straight through whatever measly clump of light that made up Callum’s soul. The superior angel leaned in as he spoke, hissing and bringing a finger close to Callum’s face.

  
He swallowed. “Yes, Arch-Powers.”

  
“You will do as you’re told. You will fulfill your only lowly purpose for the Lord. This weakness must be fixed immediately--such ‘distress’ must be a bug in your programming--some idiot angel must have messed you up!”

  
He had to close his eyes; the other’s halo was too bright with glowing holy justice. “Yes, Arch-Powers.”

  
“Look at me when I talk to you, maggot!” Callum’s eyes flung open on instinct, bracing through the pain. If all angels were made with the tiniest, sliver of sin, this Arch-Powers must be rage, he decided. “You will go to the Assimilation Room immediately! Get diagnosed and get fixed! I don't care if you have to get your memory wiped--no soldier abandons their post!”

  
If his heart had thundered before, now it screamed, banging on his chest, begging for freedom. If he got his memory wiped--he could lose everything. He would lose Chris. He couldn’t lose Chris, he loved him, he held his hand, he was the only reason blood wasn’t dripping from every wall--  
“Arch-Powers--”  
“Did I ask for your two-winged opinion, low life?!” At their mention, his wings pressed against his back. “Go! Get! Fixed!”

  
His lips were sealed shut; he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. All except for two words, “Yes, Arch-Powers.”  
\---  
It was a nice room; it was built to be so. The heavenly traces along the crack in the walls was enough to lure lower angels to the doors without thinking. It was a heavenly white, a beautiful white. Callum was growing apathetic to it.

  
There was a small chair attached to the floor in the middle of the room underneath a glowing gold orb, where Callum currently sat, fingernails biting into pale skin. The probing of memories should have hurt, but it didn’t. The presence of the Lord in his mind was always there, it was just magnified, twisting up his innards and massaging the crevices. If he flinched, the massage would move elsewhere. That was what happened as it approached his memory of Chris--there was a flinch, and then nothing. Maybe He didn’t know of his blasphemy.

  
The Arch-Powers wasn’t there. He must have better things to do than watch a Powers be fixed, smoothed of all broken cracks, his heart patched to be more uncaring. What would such apathy feel like? To hear children screams and have it tickle nothing. Callum was desperate enough to feel jealous of such a heart.

  
The angel analyzing the massive stream of data coming from Callum tutted their tongue, pursing their lips. Callum missed his armor, the one he was granted to wear on nasty days with all those soldier demons becoming bold. Maybe then he would feel safe.

  
“I see what the problem is,” the angel sighed, “Your care capacity is too high. Every angel is given some unique features, sure, but yours is off the chart. Must have been horrible to deal with, especially for a Powers.” The angel gave him a look of pity; such a curse, wasn’t it? To feel horror. “I’m afraid it needs a complete memory wipe to fix to allow readjustment--your memories are causing too much of a care factor too. After that, you’ll be in tip-top shape,” the angel hummed, smiling. Smiling.

Terror donned on his face, cloaking every inch. No, no, no, no, NO, NO--

  
“Is everything alright?”

  
He would lose everything! Chris, he--they held each just moments through their breaks from slaughtering, from the blood, and they couldn’t take him away--

  
Chris holding his hand out when he fell down during training, laughing, dimples clear as he teased him about balance.

  
Chris covering for him during chore duty, winking and splashing him with split holy water.

  
Chris crushing a demon off his back as it reached for his halo, wild eyes of fear reaching his, so scared to lose him, Callum, just another being.

  
Chris holding him when the world fell apart.

  
He jumped off the chair, the light above him glowing a harsher gold, and the angel looked so confused, reaching out to him, asking him if he was alright. Of course he wasn’t. He launched towards the doorway, but his halo slammed him into the ground, the brightness causing him to shield his eyes and mouth and ears. His emotions shook inside his head, and the light inside him, his soul, banged against its case, but the halo surrounded his vision and forced him still. The Lord was annoyed with him. He could feel His presence rattling in his skull.

  
You would choose him over Me?

  
No, no I wouldn’t--

  
You lie. Another sin. Sin after sin. You are broken.

  
No, I--

  
You are corrupted. I’m sorry, My son. By My will, I gave you a heart. Now you turn against Me with it. Rest easy that I will not give a Powers such a heart in the future, My son.

  
I promise, I promise to be good, I’ll do anything, I want to be Your servant, Your holy angel, I love You, just don’t--

  
Would you choose Me? Every time? Always? Are you loyal, My son?

The Arch-Powers boots clanged on the floor right under his field of vision. The eyes that dripped from his wings didn’t look angry. They just looked disappointed. Callum felt the heaviest weight in the world drop in his gut. It was beginning to pull him downward, urging him to sink down the walls. Out of Heaven.

  
No, no, please--

  
You love this Chris more than Me. You sin. You grieve for the guilty.

  
Lord--Lord please, I grieve for souls, Lord, do you not teach us to be kind?

  
DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME, CALLUM!

  
Callum felt his teeth rattle against the floor, the world was shaking. He swore he heard Chris call his name. Felt someone hold his hand, beg for him. Desperation clawed at his insides as the weight downwards started to become greater, darker.

  
I always hate to see angels fall. I failed you.

  
No, no, Lord, I don’t want to fall--

  
You only want Chris. He should fall too. Then you can both eat with demons.

  
NO! Anything, please--I’ll have my memory wiped, I’ll do anything, just leave him alone!

  
...that was a test. You failed. Chris is loyal. Do you doubt Me?

  
No, Lord! (Chris didn’t love him this much? He didn’t care as much as Callum did?)

  
You clearly do, Callum. I am not an idiot. Chris has fewer sins than you. He’ll stay for now. You, however…

  
No, no, NO--

  
Even with reprogramming, you’re a lost cause. You’re broken.

  
I--

  
You are corrupt.

  
My word is the law. You shall be banished.

  
PLEASE HAVE MERCY--

  
This is mercy.

  
Goodbye, Callum. Say hello to My other sons for Me.

  
I WILL NOT, THIS IS UNJUST, UNFAIR, I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!

  
As it shall be, with heaven, for angels to be blessed, this son is exiled.

  
NO--

  
Forever, to the ages of ages.

  
Amen.

  
\---  
The light that had blinded him, pulsed as the Lord spoke, bled away. The warmness on his hand, screaming that echoed in his mind from outside and inside. For the briefest of moments, as his halo was snuffed out, when the lord had forsaken him, he looked up and met Chris’s eyes. They were burned into his mind, forever--wide and open, scared, so, so scared, filled with terrifying, cursed love. With Chris gripping his hand, he suddenly understood.

  
Because even with this, he wouldn’t give up anything.

  
He still loved him.

  
Callum wouldn’t change anything. He hoped Chris knew that.

  
And then it all disappeared--the white, the gold, Chris. There was just endless falling, over and over and over, as he sunk through the floor and down, down, DOWN--  
With his halo gone, the darkness quickly consumed him, burning into his eyes as he looked upward at the holy light quickly fading from view. He had never seen such dark before.

  
As he was falling, he felt his wings scorch and burn, causing him to scream out endlessly, but there was no one to hear him as his wings were reduced to nothing but skin. Maybe the fall would end him. Maybe that was what the Lord meant by mercy.

  
It was hot. He had never felt heat either. It was the strangest thing, to feel heat claw at his skin as it burnt too, becoming red and chalky, burning his veins alive with every thump of his stupid, stupid heart. He hated it. Pain stabbed his nerves and twisted them into something horrible, biting and chewing and spitting and it hurt, hurt, HURT--  
Why would the Lord do this? Didn’t the He love him? Why did He make him hurt so much?

  
Is this the reward for love?

  
It was so dark that, in the end, Callum only knew he hit the ground because of another thud on his head, this one bringing a peace that came with unconsciousness, so the pain of the heat of every nerve could chew at him without staking a notice into his brain every microsecond.

  
If Callum squinted, he thought he could see the heavenly light, the only beacon in the world.

  
Before he passed out, he hoped it could see him too.


	2. As Cold As Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben finds Callum lying on the ground, much to his surprise.

There are many things a demon expects to see on a walk. Young demons clawing at some poor, lost human soul, for instance. Two demons interlocked in intercourse in a back alley, or worse, on the road. Personally, Ben had more taste than that, but to each demon his own. Perhaps such actions were what chose him to walk down a Dark Path that evening--places where there was no fire, no lava, just dark. For the solitude of it. And young demons not biting at his heels.

  
Fingers played with the tip of his luxurious, curled horns, ram-like, a mortal called it. He made sure to keep his makeshift fire, a rune cast on his hand, close to pointy things in case there was something in the dark that thought it would be funny to challenge a higher demon--which would frankly much ruin this whole affair.

  
Paul loved walks on Dark Paths. He would bash Ben’s concerns away and smile, telling him they help him think. Well, that was what Ben was trying to do at the moment. Think. 

  
His father wouldn’t listen to him. Said he had better things to do. Better things to do than listen to his idiot son. The one who came up with a battle plan he wouldn’t even listen to. The one whose claws had bit into a goblin that laughed at him in his father’s little throne room, ripping it to shreds. And yeah, that stuff tended to get to Ben sometimes. He was funny like that. 

  
So here he was on a walk that Paul would have urged him on, taken his hand and lead him down, and it wasn’t working. There was too much noise, screaming on the inside to think; the world was a blur of dark grey and black and blue, misty with something darker than his own charred hands, and it made it impossible to even breathe right. His footsteps didn’t echo in the darkness of nowhere. There was nothing for it to bounce off of. 

  
His feet carried him down without thinking, a trail of invisible footsteps in soft dark sand behind him. He wished Paul was here--he would know how to calm him down, how to reason with his father, when to quit, if his battle plan was even worth it. 

  
He would know. 

  
Melancholy ruled his ash dust face, eyes unseeing until he suddenly tripped over a mystery object and slammed onto the ground, his eyeballs rattling. What? He immediately withdrew his feet, baring his fangs and sharpening his claws, darting away from the object--maybe a goblin that followed him while he was lost in his mind. He waited, but no attack came. Curious. Ben inched closer to the object, extending the width of his rune. His eyes widened at what he saw, mouth agape.

  
It was a demon. Well, demon was a loose word. It was definitely demon shaped. It had wings, showing some status, but it didn’t look demon born. The skin of the wings was bright black, still tender, and also reeked like anything. Fingers were charred black, but barely--the skin was still pink and pale in some places, still smoldering, and even though the demon had wings, there were no horns to show status. Just singed light hair, everywhere. Ben’s eyes glanced downward, and he startled backward to see a few angel feathers near the demon, some still attached to the wings. 

  
Oh, fucking Beelzebub.

  
Ben had just found a fallen angel, hasn’t he?

  
The demon fell down again, gaping and claws digging into the soft sand. Unholy fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK--

  
Fallen angels were so fucking rare these days--his dad said they never came at all because of tightened programming and mind control. And this bastard actually managed to break free! And survive the impact! And be found!

  
He ran his hand over his face, his hand with the fire going limp before a thought occurred to him--were they actually alive? A bit hesitant, Ben crept closer to the fallen angel--they had a strange light smell over the smell of burnt flesh, it made his eyes water--and put a black finger on the tender skin. (It was so cold, actually, as if it had never been touched before, even with all the burning.) There was no movement, but he could feel a heartbeat, somewhere. Either way, this demon was coming back with him or no one else would believe this actually fucking happened. 

  
Tentatively, he inched closer and picked up a hand. No movement. (And so cold.) Feeling a bit more courageous, the higher demon attempted to gather the fallen angel into his arms, already being filled with glee at his discovery, when he caught sight of its face. His face, actually. The light in his free hand, a bit muffled because of its position, illuminated a strong face with light hair, lips pink and eyelashes long. He was, well, beautiful. Angelically beautiful. Ben found himself unable to move, wondering what color his eyes would be--gold surrounded by dark? (And the body called his arms; it was cold in a way Ben never knew he wanted.) But that’s when the observation stopped being wondrous, and more cautious, since, as he looked downward, one thing was very evidently clear. 

  
This angel was a fighter. 

  
He apparently had been given muscles to fight, a strong body to injure. Which, of course, was definitely still nice to look at, but it drove home that this wasn’t some singing choir boy. Who exactly was this fallen angel? What the living fuck did he do to get to such a dark place like this?

  
Probably murder. Definitely murder. 

  
In any case, he finally pulled the angel up in his arms, well, demon, and made sure to stash any angel feathers, difficult as it may be, to sell off later to the highest bidder.   
The smell of heaven clinging to the being he carried was starting to haunt him now. 

  
\---

  
Fuck, this place was gaudy. The walls loomed, a dark black fortress, blending deeply into the darkness of the edging void. Considering not wanting others to see your house was a particularly good thing this far out from demon civilization, so it wasn't bad on a technical standpoint. It was just that it looked so, well, depressing. And gaudy--obsidian on sand? How many runes did it take to keep this thing upright? Where did she even find that much rock?

  
Those thoughts, which Ben had run through before, every time he entered the large house, was a nice little distraction from the dead weight in his arms, which, after walking what felt like a million steps, was enough to make him keel over if he didn’t focus on anything besides his aching arms. (Ben’s eyes flicked to the angel’s sometimes, they were always closed.) Finally, he came close enough to knock on the door, the number of cursed runes making his eyes water. Maybe that was what made all his strength sap away. 

  
You know what? Fuck knocking. The higher demon, curled, dainty horns and all, banged on his door with his left foot, almost losing his balance as the nearly nude angel’s head rolled to the side from the weight change. That fucking harlot of a demon better open the door soon.

  
Nothing. 

  
Of course, the owner of such a horrible fortress wouldn’t do something as polite as answering a knock. He banged the door even harder, his feet starting to become sore from his refusal to stop. Finally, he heard screams of frustration--or at least he sincerely hoped it was frustration--and the door jabbed itself open, causing Ben to stop mid-kick as a black-haired demon glared back at him with her gold touched eyes. 

  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” was the first question, glaring eyes solely fixed on the other demon, “If I don’t fucking answer, it might be because I’m fucking busy, Ben!” Said demon flinched as he looked down at the other demon’s naked female form--ugh--and realized that Whitney had probably been busy in a fun way. Gross. He would have opened his mouth to comment before there was a large gasp by the pointy horned demon. Right. There was an angel in his arms. 

  
“What the fuck is that?! Is that a--”

  
“A fallen angel, yes, let me talk, Whit, Beelzebub above.” He shifted the weight again; now that he wasn’t moving, gravity seemed to pull down twice as hard. “I found it--”  
“How did you find it?! Where did you find it--oh my devils it's freshly fallen isn’t it--is that a FEATHER?!” Whitney interrupted, apparently very fixed in gaping. 

  
“Keep yourself calm, woman!” he snapped, his brow furrowing in annoyance. These pointy-headed demons were always so brainless. “In order, I found it on a Dark Path, I believe it's freshly fallen, and it's probably a feather, yeah. Can I just come in?”

  
“Yes, yes, of course,” Whitney muttered, seemingly still lost in amazement, waving her hand to displace the runes dragging Ben’s bones and allow him to step into the house without becoming whatever she cursed them with. A look in a dark corner confirmed that the long-haired demon had been entertaining, and Ben shot the male demon a wink as he was ushered out by a still naked Whitney. 

  
“Can you put on some clothes before having to deal with all of, well, this,” Ben gestured after he had placed the angel down on one of the few lavish couches Whitney had in her main hall. The female demon nodded, wordless thankfully, and disappeared from view.

  
And Ben was alone. 

  
Crashing into the couch, the demon gave a large exhale, closing his eyes. He was never doing that particular exercise again. Maybe he was out of shape. That lovely thought got him to open his eyes, which quickly fixated on his new treasure. (Ben was almost starting to miss the weight in his arms; they were getting warmer and warmer with his inner beat every passing second.) There was a long silence in the room, and Ben scooched closer to it. Him. Brushed some hair out his face, so slowly, as if he was scared the angel would wake any moment. He had long eyelashes; they were lighter than his hair. Another small breath, barely there, between him and something so new. There was sand stuck in his eyebrows. Ben’s tail wrapped around his own leg, squeezing him as he was about to brush out the sand, claws a microsecond away from skin. (Why did he want that softness so much? What curse plagued him, sent by God? He was so beautiful in a way that was achingly familiar. Like Paul, almost.) A strange expression crossed his own face, and he took a deep breath. 

  
The moment was broken as Whitney barged back in, and Ben leaped backward, rewriting his expression to be apathetic, stale, bored. He tapped his knee, feigning a dodgy mask of impatience. “Took you long enough to get changed.”

  
Whitney sent him an annoyed look before sitting on the couch beside the angel. Her face got softer too. “It’s really an angel, isn’t it? Well, was. Those wings are burnt as sin; he ain’t flying anytime soon.” Ben grunted back; by now, he and those wings made of lead were well acquainted. Whitney’s own wings brushed up against the floor, fully able. “Why do you think it's down here?”

  
“Murder. Look at ‘em muscles.” He pointed to a sculpted bicep and Whitney nodded appreciatively. 

  
A sour look came on her face. “Isn’t that how that Stuart fell? Eons ago, I mean. Devils, I can’t even imagine that brute like--like this.” Ben cringed too; that was not a pretty picture at all, imagining that ogre of a brute all dainty and holy like. “He definitely needs some help getting wrapped up--I can attend to his bandages. Look at those burns, they’re still smoldering!” Whitney stood up, brushing off fine sand from her new clothes. 

  
“What do you want for payment?” Ben stated, looking up at Whitney frankly, his eyes stone. Make this clear this was a transaction. No trust. No favors. Not to the likes of a demon. 

  
Whitney’s face cooled, “I’ll let you know when I see the damage.”

  
\---

  
“How has he not woken up by now?” Ben snapped towards Whitney, who gave him a glare right back. He crossed his arms, leaning against an obsidian wall. Whitney kept pushing the hair out of the angel's eyes as she finished the last bandage. (Just like he did. Her face was too soft; it itched at his skin) And she kept touching him, just little blips of contact, a pinky on an arm, a brush against hornless hair. 

  
“He’s injured, Ben, it's remarkable he’s even alive.” Another touch.

  
Finally, it proved enough. “Keep your hands off, alright? I called dibs.” Ben slashed his tail in the air, giving Whitney a glare. 

  
“Well, technically this is my territory, ain’t it? I think, legally, he should belong to me, at least somewhat. So I can touch him if I want, thank you very much.” She entangled her fingers in his hair as if to point this out even more, or to piss Ben off, and the male demon was suddenly very glad that they had sorted him into clothes as Whitney had wrapped up the bandages. Finally, Whitney seemed to grow tired of it all, or at least tired of Ben, and sat up from the couch. Her eyes were hard. “I’m going to sleep. Alright? Best you do too.” The message was clear--a truce over their little spat. On who the angel belonged to. On who got to be near him.

  
“So, I’m gonna break him, am I?” His brow was furrowed, eyes overcast. His tail whipped through the air again. 

  
“You don’t exactly have the best reputation.”

  
“Neither do you. I still came here for your services anyway.” 

  
“Just go to sleep, Ben.” Whitney shook her head, avoiding the hidden accusation and pulling up again the offer for a truce. The ram-horned demon looked down at the floor. That was good enough for the other demon, and again, Ben was alone. He would ask for her price later.

  
Ben did try to avoid falling asleep, His eyes simply didn’t want to look away. The curtains blew around his ankles, tickling them, and the demon slid down the wall, sitting on the floor with one leg outstretched. 

  
He really was beautiful, in a way he never knew was possible. It was a soft beauty, a gentle caress; he even still smelled like heaven. Being close to something that even touched heaven was alien; it bit at his skin but still drew him. A hunger, maybe. For light. One he had never seen, born into the Dark like many other demons these days. His father never told him anything about what angels had been like. 

  
Paul was half-fallen. His mother was a lowly angel or something. Yes, actually. Maybe that’s why he was so kind. Gentle. Loving. But Paul was so much older, he didn’t smell like heaven at all. Even if his face held that beauty, even if his eyes held that light. Maybe all demons longed for that piece that wasn’t ever granted--Paul was often in demand, despite how he told Ben over and over that he only cared for him. 

  
He ran a hand over his face. Fuck. Only he could turn a pretty face into something about a dead demon. Whatever. He adjusted his seat against the wall, tearing his eyes to the tacky ceiling instead.

  
He tried to listen to only the sound of the curtains swishing on the floor whenever Ben made a movement; there was never any wind this close to the Dark. Barely anything at all. Why did Whitney even live here?

  
A groan. A noise outside of the wooden and stone furniture and lonely walls. It was coming from the couch. Ben sucked in a breath, holding it tight.   
He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. (It sounded like a groan of pain, he knew the sound well.) But there was no other movements, no other noises.

  
After an eternity, Ben inched upward to his feet, slowly, so slowly, heading towards the couch. (Why did the slow pace matter so much? To approach the gentlest thing in the world?) Finally, after eons and eons of heartbeats, the ram-horned demon was sitting next to the angel, still draped in the dark. He wore it well. A black claw was lifted and settled, after so much hesitation, right next to the angel’s face. Ben didn’t think he breathed in years. 

  
(He didn’t want sound; he didn’t want anything.)

  
Leaning over, Ben could see there was still some sand in the angel’s eyebrows. Without thinking, he moved a claw to get rid of it, shoulders relaxed and face unguarded, alone in the silence of the Dark. Not even his father would have recognized him.

  
And it was at that moment that the angel’s eyes burst open, the world filled with the sound of a sharp breath as those eyes, from a simple matter of position, met his.   
They were blue, like his. Surrounded by white. Not like him. 

  
But they were the same, in that heartbeat. 

  
And then the angel screamed, and Ben didn’t have time to react as he was suddenly elbowed so hard in the face his bones and eyeballs rattled, flinging him to the other side of the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, the language definitely changes, but it should stay consistently like this on Ben's side. It might take a while for Callum to change. Paul's dead, Chris is probably still alive, and Stuart is somewhere! Yay! The next chapter should be Callum's POV. Leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed this chapter!!

**Author's Note:**

> So the theology on this is gonna be a bit sketchy, so don't worry about it. The next chapter will be from Ben's POV--the language of the piece is going to change from POV to POV, which is why Callum's right now sounds very poetic and tragic. Please give kudos or comment if you enjoyed it so far!


End file.
